thread back the seams of my heart
by paradises
Summary: "He's got the way of a hurricane" — June exchange fanfic, for


for the** june '13 fanfic exchange.** it was supposed to turn out better, so sorry about this! it's probably so sucky, though, 'cause it's based of a true experience, :)**  
**

**dedication: **to jacqueline (pinkharts)  
**prompts: **spilled sangria, "tell me everything about you. you can go on for hours. i don't mind.", journal/notebook, tattoo

* * *

**thread back together the seams of my heart  
**

The stars are vanishing tonight.

They seem to be disappearing, like the bees, _Massie ponders, _and soon enough, there aren't any stars left (it's just a wide, empty, dark blue open sky, and it'll always be that way 'til the end of time). Nobody seems to believe Massie, thinking to themselves -especially her parents- how much they wish that Massie would stop playing pretend and just grow up.

_I'm never going to grow up, _she tells her best friend Layne.

She only snickers in response (Massie's not sure if Layne's her best friend anymore), and lights a cigarette, the smoke forming in ringlets, concentric circles almost; they build on top of each other until they reach the sky. Massie wonders how the world would be if everybody lived in a parallel universe; perhaps, the roles of the social ladder could be switched around, and maybe Massie wouldn't have to act so banal, day after day.

God, her life's like an Edgar Allen Poe poem.

(Is that really that bad?)

Hell, yeah. It was the only way to gain attention, Massie believed; at least that's what Alicia had said.

Massie goes to her therapist, cutting class again, who tells her nothing more than what she doesn't want to hear. "The first way to deal with life is to accept the problems that we all have, dearie-" Miss Pavel, stops, offering Massie a half-eaten cookie, to which Massie inwardly sneers. "-and there's no better way to do that, then to identify your problem."

Handing over a moleskin **journal**, Miss Pavel smiles gently, gesturing for her client to accept the thoughtful gift. Walking across the room, and throwing the thoughtful gift into the trash can, Massie confesses. "I'm in love."

.

.

.

In the night, sometimes, she walks outside, barefoot, with a flowing white dress, and a bouquet of white lilies in her right hand, as she dances in the primrose path of the field. There's these stars in the sky, and even though only a few of them are left, they're still there.

There are still people who love them.

For a moment, Massie isn't sure if she's talking about herself or the stars, anymore. Most of the stars are gone.

Massie wonders if there's still time to save the few ones that are still there; perhaps, she thinks, she can pluck them out of the sky, and keep them treasured, under lock and key, far, far away from the world of destruction.

.

.

.

"I don't understand," Josh took a breath, sipping a glass of wine, that was actually orange juice, from a wine glass (or could it be chocolate milk). "You have the hottest girl in Westchester, Claire, wrapped around your hairy finger-" Derrick ignored the insult. "And you chose Massie?" If the situation wasn't so droll, Derrick might have erupted into laughter at the comical expression on Josh's face.

Derrick said nothing – simply watching his friend. Josh rarely stood still, no matter what kind of mood he was in, and so the fact that he was rather giving the impression of fooling around in high spirits right now didn't necessarily mean that his mood was a pleasant one. He was so very different to both Derrick, who declared that his friend was much too energetic to be normal, while Kristen declared the opposite; in fact, these days, she rarely agreed with Derrick. Josh was wearing an odd shade of orange now, and looked like Hello Kitty.

Derrick wore blue.

Frankly, Derrick often wondered quite where Josh had _come_ from, for he didn't seem to be quite like anyone else in Westchester. He was the relative of the Town Mayor, who was a stocky man, largely built around the waist with some hairs of a whisky mustache, and a hairline that was receding quite decently for the man's age, and also the cousin of the one of the school's drug cartel leaders. In fact, Josh was even unlike his own brother – from the way that he dressed (wild, eccentric colors that clashed with his skintone) to his actions (vibrant and cheery, unlike his eyes which always carried a certain melancholy nature to them); in fact, Josh was _really,_

(Derrick looked at him again)

—quite _mad_.

He walks towards the mahogany door, thinking momentarily about Effie Trinket, and motions towards Josh, who lazily throws him the keys. "Where do you think you're going?"

Derrick lets out a forced laugh. "To do something I should have done a long time ago."

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.

.

**"Tell me everything about you. You can go on for hours. I don't mind," **Massie comments, picking at the gold lion charm bracelet on her right hand, memories of Octavian and Briarwood coming back crystal clear; and of course, of Derrick Harrington. She's laying down next to him, gazing up at the stars, as they holds hands, waiting together for the silences to end.

"I love you."

The words hang above them, echoing against the silence, in the way that only the quietness of Westchester can make; the soft sentiment is in counterpoint to the harsh noises of an airplane flying above head. There's a long pause before Massie can bring herself, muster herself, to say anything.

Massie had expected her first "I love you" to be responded in an instant, with the same words, ended with a sweet embrace, and fireworks in the background. He stands up, rigidly tall, a blunt figure in the background, an expanse of a starry night, yet she can see that his face is still as solemn as ever.

She doesn't know what to make of the declaration. "What do you expect me to say?"

"I don't know. I just wanted to say it, before it was too late."

He is gone before she can think of an acceptable response, before her brain can come to a conclusion that would sound right in her mind and out of her mouth. She watches him slip away, out of her grasp, out of the room, and into the street. And someone watching from afar, might have thought that, maybe, just maybe, he was leaving her, and she was letting him go.

.

.

.

Pressing her fingers against the cold ivory is relaxing.

Emitting a cry of frustration, Massie kicks the piano away (as if it was that easy), sits on the couch, and mopes for approximately an hour before realizing what mistakes that she had made, and exactly how to fix them. Going back to the piano, quietly, Massie sits on the bench, playing the interconnecting melodies without a single mistake.

(If life was only that easy.)

At the concert, there's polite clapping.

"Of course, that's er, our friend's daughter," her mother recovers, covering up her plastic face with an even more plastic smile. "No, no, no," she denies. "That's most definitely _not _our daughter." When Massie almost leaves the room, "Our children are actually good at what they do." Even her parents don't want to know her —do you know her? not this girl—.

Overhearing the conversation, one moment Massie is reposed.

The next, she is sitting in her treehouse —_their _treehouse—, tears streaming down her face as she frantically tries to wipe them away with a used black-and-green handkerchief. There's **spilled sangria** everywhere; the iced tea falling from the edge of the simple structure like teardrops.

.

.

.

She sees him on a Monday morning.

His blue-and-pink tie (the colors suit him well, for some reason), shirt untucked, and brown hair tousled as he plays with children on the Early Learning Center's vast playground. Snow is still thick upon the grounds, and the school's tinted windows are covered in layers of ice; freezing water dripping from the roof gently lands on the ground. Derrick is playing soccer, kicking the ball in a swift motion, mouth agape as he screams incomprehensible words.

_He has nice lips, _Massie thinks.

Moments later, the ball crashes into her face, and she blacks out.

When she wakes up, it's in a seemingly sterile environment, and nobody else is in the darkened room (at least, she can't make out any figures); identifying location isn't now one of her largest priorities, as she realizes where she is.

Derrick Harrington's bedroom.

.

.

.

It's the first day of summer break.

She should be partying in the very exclusive section with the most elite of Westchester's youth throughout the night, or at Gallawaugh Farms, racing other competitive teenagers with Brownie, or even lounging in the spa, fingernails still drying; anything but being at a library. So, it's like her mother has this wonderful idea that she should help people (the less fortunate).

Volunteering at an elementary _public _school library is horrible.

Massie meets her yoga teacher's godmother who insists that the two have a conversation about calisthenics, a blind old woman who is somehow the principal, and a few lanky third graders who comment on how short she is, while managing to sprain a finger, and get two allergic reactions to peanut butter and macademia nut cookies. All in all, the perfect day of summer vacation.

So, she's stacking books now.

Apparently the librarian told her to stack the books in alphabetical order and if one book was even out of order, she wouldn't get the volunteer hours that she was working so hard to far (some incentive). "I'd recommend," long tan fingers meet hers. "—, The Secrets of Droon or maybe Geronimo Stilton, if you're looking for childhood memories."

Of course it's him. _Think of something! Stop choking on your own saliva! _"And what would you, Harrington, know about children's books?" His choice of books, on the other hand, is interesting.

"I read them all the time," he says quite plainly. "And you'll probably also like Gossip Girl." She should be offended by his derogatory tone towards one of her favorite young adult romance novels, but this is Derrick Harrington.

Massie scoffs, instead, reaching behind her randomly, hoping to pick up her favorite book, and presses it into Derrick's hands. "This," she looks down, only to see that this book, instead of The Fault in our Stars is instead something entirely different. "—, Big Trucks, Big Wheels, is my favorite book."

"You don't strike me as a nonfiction lover, Block," Derrick teases. She opes her mouth for a classic Massie Block retort, but he presses the book to her lips, silencing her. "I'll check this out, though. After all, you have the best taste."

Before leaving the room, Derrick winks.

At her.

.

.

.

"Are you sure it wasn't an eye-twitch?"

Massie is sitting in some sort of parlor, while examining her best friend with disdain, as Layne mumbles in complaints about how her butterfly **tattoo **isn't symmetric, demanding an immediate refund unless the shop would like to be sued.

Hesitating, Massie takes a pause. "I'll ask him."

If Layne wasn't wincing in pain and doubling over, her words, "You're rushing this" might have been comprehensible. (Sadly, things don't usually go to plan).

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**MASSIE BLOCK: **derrick? you know, um, about earlier, was that an eye-twitch or a wink?**  
DERRICK HARRINGTON: **you're adorable, block, ;)


End file.
